I’ve been struggling with the “to share or not to share” question for a couple of weeks now. Was it really necessary for me to tell the Internet about my health, with all the sordid details? Maybe not, but I liken my site to an ongoing documentary of my life. Unless I record the bad with the good, it won’t be an accurate testimony. So, for those who wish to be spared from the knowledge, don’t click “read on” and go look at some pictures instead. You have been warned.

I am scheduled for a minor surgery on Thursday.

Today, Hubby and I went to the doctor’s office for a pre-op appointment where my ob/gyn explained the procedures to be done and had me sign a pretty disturbing release form. (Putting my signature on a document that has the word “death” in reference to myself is bound to be unnerving.) Seriously though, the procedures to be done are fairly common (D&C, laparoscopy, hysteroscopy) and risks are minimal. However, I still find myself having to quell a feeling of apprehension about having to undergo another surgery. My only consolation is that Hubby is here and he was kind enough to take his “vacation” to nurse me back to health. Enduring the tonsillectomy without him earlier this year was a definite experience, one that I don’t wish to repeat.

Perhaps more unsettling than the procedure itself is the possible ramifications of what the ob/gyn may find. On that disturbing release form was a space for her to indicate the reason for treatment. On that line, she scribbled “irregular bleeding, infertility and possible pelvic mass.” Infertility. Although she threw the word around in my previous appointment when she reviewed the result of my pelvic ultrasound, she had prefaced it with the word “possible.” Today, seeing her write it in her barely legible writing as she verbalized it was like a sock to the gut and nearly knocked the wind out of me.

I often say in jest, “I don’t think I’d make a very good mother…” for some reason or other. But I never thought that I wouldn’t have the chance to prove myself wrong. The reality of that possibility presented itself to me today in the most casual, blase way. I can’t fault my ob/gyn for her lack of drama. After all, infertility is an everyday occurrence for her. The photos of her smiling children stared back at me from the shelves behind her desk. I wondered if I would be able have a similar photo on my desk someday?

Of course, nothing is certain until she gets a look inside, so there’s really no sense in me getting myself all worked up about it. Right?

Hubby and I had this discussion before. What if we find out that we can’t have kids? He assured me that he would still be completely fulfilled even if our family never expanded beyond the two of us. Honestly, I feel the same way. Hubby is my best friend, my confidant, my playmate, and my better half. The only time I really get worried about the issue of not being able to have children is when I think about aging — and aging alone. As an only child and with Hubby being 8 years my senior, I loathe the thought of dying a lonely, old woman. Alone. Morbid, yes; but an important consideration. But who’s to say that even if we had child(ren) that they would stick around in my golden years?

But, I digress. This is a very selfish line of thinking.

Nevertheless, I again ask for your prayers. God willing, I will be documenting my post-op experiences as I did with my tonsillectomy. If for nothing else, for your amusement.

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